St Martin
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Though his part-time lover rarely let his outer appearance change in public, the Frenchman knew he was a whirlwind of emotions on the inside. / Written for 14 Days of (Hetalia) Love.


Names used: **France** (Francis), **Netherlands** (Marijn)

Author's note: 14 Days of (Hetalia) Love Tumblr request (pretzelofdarkness): « Could I request Netherlands x France if there is still room on your request list please?! » France will forever be the be-all, end-all of lovers in Hetalia to me and Netherlands is such a fun challenge. Their relationship really does intrigue me so I hope this is what you were looking for. I'd nearly forgotten that I'd set aside St. Martin as an idea for a future story so I'm glad I found it.

* * *

**St. Martin**

They meet on the Dutch side of the island, Francis admiring Marijn as he slowly approaches him. He's yet to decide if the man looks ridiculous or wonderful in light slacks and a half-open button-down shirt, the outfit so different from the tight-fitting things Marijn normally wore buttoned all the way up. The wind ruffles Francis's clothing, also loose though much more styled than Marijn's, as he comes to rest on the bench beside his companion, threading their fingers together.

"Thought we might go out tonight," Marijn says by way of a greeting. "Get drunk, black out on what happens after that."

"One of those moods?" Francis teases because though his part-time lover rarely let his outer appearance change in public, the Frenchman knew he was a whirlwind of emotions on the inside.

Green eyes look at him challengingly before Marijn sighs and kisses him. "This vacation didn't come soon enough."

* * *

After a late lunch Francis naps, Marijn smoking out on the balcony. Rolling over the Frenchman listens to his boyfriend singing softly with a beautiful, deep voice that was rich like a cello. It lulls him back to sleep once more.

* * *

The restaurant they'd taken dinner at had been good, one of their favorites, but it's the club they really look forward to. Inside the music is loud, the room dark, a heat pressing down all around as the crowd moves together.

And as per Marijn's request they lose themselves in it, the drinking, the dancing, the bodies pressing against bodies. Marijn gropes– full-on gropes –Francis on the dance floor, mouthes gnashing against one another. The French nation couldn't say what song was playing or the name of the club but he could describe the feel of Marijn's hair sliding through his fingers, the lines of the man's stomach showing through his sweat-soaked shirt–

"Let's go," the man growls in his ear and after that, Francis just can't recall.

* * *

They continue recovering the next day in the back seat of the car driving them to the French side of the island, Francis leaning carefully against Marijn. His thighs and ass were covered in bruises, as were the Dutchman's back and upper arms, and from the way they woke less on the bed and more wrapped up in sheets beside the bed, the two men had conclude that perhaps it was better to not try and figure out the finer details of their late-night activity.

Once arrived at Francis's small house they change into swimsuits to go pass the time on the private beach, heavy sunglasses on their faces as they lay contently. Eventually Marijn moves to the water, Francis following after him, and they let their bodies rock with the waves, arms wrapped around one another.

The Dutchman makes a noise that Francis understands is some form of, "Thank you for giving this unnamable peace to me," and so kisses him.

* * *

Following their private dinner they make love for hours, alternating positions but continuing a steady stream of sensual words mixed between Dutch and French and the gasps of lovers that no language can capture. It's about three hours in as Francis lays on his back, Marijn slowly thrusting in and out of him, that the thought occurs to him. Marijn holds his hips in the air, Francis arching his back to match him, and the look of intense focus and undivided attention the man holds is unlike anything the Frenchman has seen for centuries. Unsteadily he reaches out a hand to stroke a cheek, his lover pressing his face into the hand as green eyes fall closed, never once interrupting the rhythm they've established.

"I love you," Francis whispers, "like the sea love this island."

"And we," Marijn gets in in terse bites though Francis understands he means the words lovingly, "can never be separated here."

* * *

Marijn eats balls of fruit lazily, Francis watching him across the table, the way juice dribbles down his chin, how those green eyes follow along with the newspaper, everything so… content.

"We need to start spending more time here," the French nation mutters. They took plenty of vacations but rarely together and only ever for a few days here, to see one another privately.

"No we don't," Marijn argues.

"Oh? And why not?"

"Wouldn't be as special, if we did."

Francis shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the truth in those words. "Can't argue with that kind of logic." It was the time between these trips that made him appreciate Marijn that much more, and Francis knew his lover felt the same way.


End file.
